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It’s selfish to think I lost more of him than everyone else, but I had more of him.
He’s in the weight of his old camera strapped to my shoulder, in the periphery of every photo I take, squinting at the same views and humming his approval. He’s the person I talk to in my head, when I need an imaginary person to help me think things through.
A year of making memories of my own—the thousands I have saved in my camera roll, and more stamped into my heart than I could ever count.
